


Life

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Bloody Mary (Samamiya Akaza)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mary was trapped from the start, as Maria has pointed out on multiple occasions; there is nothing left for him, now, but to wait for the purring addiction borne on the other’s blood to seize him, to hope that even after that Maria will grant him the death he longs for." Maria is always rough with Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



Maria is never gentle with Mary.

Mary doesn’t mind. He’s looking for death, after all, pain and instinctive fear of destruction long ago ceased to carry the weight they should in him. But this goes beyond roughness, beyond simple physical abuse, into a careful psychological deconstruction Mary’s not sure he still has the strength to resist. He was trapped from the start, as Maria has pointed out on multiple occasions; there is nothing left for him, now, but to wait for the purring addiction borne on the other’s blood to seize him, to hope that even after that Maria will grant him the death he longs for.

“You’re hungry,” Maria says over him, and it’s not a question, and Mary doesn’t have to see his smile to know the cruel edge it has. “You can drink, I don’t mind.”

Mary shakes his head, keeps his face pressed firmly against the soft of the pillows on Maria’s bed. His mouth is open, gasping at the air he doesn’t truly need for survival, his fangs tearing pinprick holes in the fabric under him, but he refuses to look up, refuses to let himself look at the flutter of Maria’s pulse along the blue veins of the wrist bracing at his shoulder.

“You will.” Maria’s words are easy, calm and all-knowing and stripped of any emotion, like he’s talking about tomorrow’s weather or the changing of the seasons. Mary can hear the slick of the other’s fingers, the frictionless glide of skin-on-skin as he reaches for the lukewarm skin of Mary’s thigh, but he doesn’t try to move away. He doesn’t really  _want_  to, in the end; he knows if he stays his surrender to the call of Maria’s blood is inevitable, but his resistance doesn’t extend far enough to remove him from the temptation. That means when Maria’s slick fingers drag up his leg to press inside him he doesn’t drag himself free, and the sound he makes is a moan more of anxious desire than of pain.

“Relax,” Maria commands, slides his fingers in deeper. Mary forms his hands into fists on the sheets, the wall of his own arm serving as a barrier between the edges of his teeth and the steady thud of Maria’s heartbeat he imagines he can hear echoing in his too-sensitive ears. “Stop fighting.”

“I can’t,” Mary whimpers. Maria’s fingers draw back and almost free, leaving him empty and aching and trembling with uncertainty about what he even wants. “I don’t want to drink, I  _don’t_.”

“You’re lying.” It’s not even a taunt; it’s just certainty. Mary doesn’t know if Maria can feel the tension of desire all along his spine, or can hear the damp catch of saliva at his lips, or just knows, by now, doesn’t have to be told that Mary is always desperate and thrumming for the taste of his blood. His fingers slide back in, deeper this time, and Mary moans far back in his throat, can taste the resonance of the sound falling off his tongue to the sheets. “You’re starving.”

Mary doesn’t answer. It’s too true for him to deny, and he’s not sure now that he can speak coherently at all. There’s too much demanding his attention, the aching stretch of Maria’s fingers pushing him open and the desert-dry burn all along the back of his throat; he can taste the soap of the detergent clinging to the pillow, the sour bite of it at his lips and coating his tongue, and it doesn’t help to curb his appetite. It just feels like the thirst is expanding further, down his throat and into his lungs, filling up his whole chest with a vacuum of want until even the push of Maria’s fingers into him does nothing to combat the sensation of emptiness expanding out over his body.

“Idiot,” Maria says without any tone of judgment. His fingers slide free and Mary lets his hold on the sheets loosen, sucks in a breath of air he doesn’t need and closes his eyes like the loss of vision will somehow save him from the ache in his throat and the steady rhythm he can hear in his ears. Maria’s heart is beating faster, now -- reasonable enough, given what they’re in the middle of -- and the faster pace just makes Mary tense more. He can almost taste the borrowed adrenaline on his tongue, the heat of excitement stolen from Maria’s veins washing out over his tongue and down his parched throat, coiling warm and satisfying under his skin, and he’s trembling before he hears the click of Maria’s pants coming open and the soft friction of fabric sliding against itself.

A hand closes at his hip, the fingers cool with liquid but still burning with living heat against the room-temperature chill of Mary’s own skin. It makes him jolt as if he’s been shocked, like some of the electricity of Maria’s existence is skipping between that point of contact, and then there’s motion against his hair, an exhale hot and deliberate at the back of his neck. Mary whines, not sure if he’s pleading for release or for more, and he can feel the pattern of Maria’s laugh against his skin before the heat of the other’s cock catches against him and pushes inside.

It’s a stretch -- it’s always a stretch -- but that’s not what makes Mary’s spine arch itself into a curve, not what drags a groan up from that tension in his chest. It’s the  _heat_ , worse than the itching unpleasantness of sunlight or the immediate ache of touching a hot pan. This is a burn, a not-quite pain that expands out into Mary’s body like he’s taking the temperature change into himself, like the friction is waking all his silent skin back into the life it gave up long ago, and he can feel Maria’s heartbeat like a weight, hanging in the air around him and thudding a rhythm of heat inside him. His resistance is giving way, it’s shattering like glass collapsing into dust and leaving him blinded into the animal he is always so afraid to be.

Maria is moving over him, setting a slow rhythm of thrusts, but Mary isn’t paying attention to the details; it’s the heat that has him, now, is rippling dominance into him as surely as the other’s blood ties strings to him he will never be able to sever. He shoves against the bed, tips himself half-upright and leaning in sideways, and Maria is ready for him, is lifting his hand and pressing his wrist to Mary’s lips so all Mary has to do is bite down.

And he does. There’s a tearing sensation, the satisfaction of paper-thin skin falling open to the points of his teeth, and then the  _heat_ , the liquid spilling over his tongue and across his lips and down his throat as fast as he can swallow. Mary is groaning, the sound as uncontrolled as everything else about him in the moment, shuddering through ripples of pleasure as intense as if he’s become a doll to be shaken bodily by the force of satisfaction running through him. Maria’s blood feels like life, sunlight and heat and existence intoxicating to his chilled veins, and Mary isn’t even sure if he’s sucking for more, if he’s not just fitting his lips to the angle of Maria’s wrist and letting the other’s heartbeat pulse liquid over his tongue. It’s all reflexive, the shivering appreciation of the liquid soothing his throat and unfolding out into his veins, until even the low groan and the heat of Maria coming into him are at an impossible distance, too far to piece together over the ringing in his ears. Mary only realizes they’re done when a hand closes at his hair and drags him back bodily from Maria’s torn skin.

“Enough,” Maria says, and Mary is too lost to disagree, too shuddering incoherent with the fire running anxious through his veins. He can feel his heart fluttering, like it’s trying to recapture the faded spark of life, his breathing coming as fast as if he truly needs the oxygen to breathe. The fingers leave his hair, the temptation of Maria’s wrist draws away, and when Maria moves to leave the room Mary makes no attempt to follow. He’s glazed over with the heat, staring unseeing and shaking at the line of the wall meeting the ceiling, his whole body thrumming with the rich-sweet satisfaction of borrowed life in his veins.

It’s an almost painful pleasure, the sharp bite of living after centuries of mere survival. Mary still can’t decide if he likes this better, if he wouldn’t rather be alone again, but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, now.

If he has to live in order to die, he’ll do it.


End file.
